Chapter 4 A Deal With The Devil

Elena hadn't known silence could feel so loud.

The sun rose and fell three times before she gave in. Each hour stretched long, soaked in the sound of her own breathing, the tick of the gilded clock on the wall, and the creak of footsteps beyond her locked door.

She didn't sleep. Not really. She drifted. She dreamed in fragments-Marissa's face, Marissa's scream, blood pooling too fast, the stench of death clinging to her hair.

The fourth morning came and with it, something inside her broke.

She stood in front of the mirror, watching herself as if through a stranger's eyes. Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Dark shadows under her eyes like bruises from unseen fists.

This wasn't the girl who used to race to nursing school with a coffee in one hand and a textbook in the other. That girl died on a living room floor in a cheap apartment with blood on her hands.

She was tired of being hunted. Tired of being afraid. Tired of pretending she had any choices left.

So she knocked.

And she said the words.

"I'll do it. I'll stay."

No one clapped. No one smiled.

A man in black simply nodded and opened a different door-the one that led not back to her room, but down.

Down into the belly of the mansion.

The deeper they went, the darker it grew. The carpets stopped. The art disappeared. It smelled of smoke and metal, and Elena's heartbeat grew louder with each step.

They reached a heavy black door.

The man opened it and stepped aside.

"You'll find him inside," he said.

Elena hesitated-then stepped through.

The room swallowed her.

It wasn't like the others. No marble here. No chandeliers or elegant silence. This place breathed danger. A large oak desk dominated the room, its surface cluttered with old papers, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a pistol-carelessly resting between a glass and a glowing cigar.

The scent of burnt tobacco drifted through the thick air.

And there he was.

Damian Serrano.

Only... not like before.

He wasn't wearing his tailored suit or polished shoes. He wasn't wearing much of anything, actually. Just black slacks slung low on his hips, barefoot, his bare chest a canvas of tattoos and old scars-some jagged and cruel, others faded like ghosts of long-forgotten battles.

Elena froze in the doorway.

Something primal stirred deep in her chest. Not lust, not quite-but something just as confusing. Something that made her legs weak and her mouth dry.

His body was intimidating, yes. But it wasn't just the strength in his muscles-it was the stories etched across them. A life of blood. Of survival. Of pain carved into flesh.

He looked up from his chair, the orange tip of the cigar glowing as he took a slow drag.

"You made your choice," he said, voice low and unreadable.

Elena nodded. "Yes."

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

"Then you should know what it means."

She stepped closer, slowly, eyes flicking to the gun, the drink, the iron bars across a door on the far side of the room. She noticed a man tied to a chair behind them-head bleeding, mouth gagged. He was barely conscious.

She swallowed.

"Every action here has a consequence," Damian said. "This house runs on rules. You break them, you pay. You lie, you bleed. You disappear when I say. You speak when I allow it."

Elena's throat tightened. "And if I want to leave?"

He tilted his head.

"You don't."

A silence fell.

Damian stood then, walking slowly around the desk, cigar between his fingers. His bare feet moved silently across the wood, and Elena resisted the urge to step back.

"You wanted protection," he said, voice almost gentle. "It doesn't come for free."

She nodded. "I know."

"No school. No outside life. No more little dreams of being someone else."

He stopped just in front of her.

"From this moment on," he said, voice quiet, "you belong to my world."

Elena looked up at him, heart pounding.

"I don't want revenge," she said, though it tasted like a lie. "I just want to survive."

He studied her face for a long moment.

"That's what they all say," he murmured.

Then, without warning, he turned and walked back to the desk. The man in the chair behind him groaned weakly, the sound barely human.

Damian didn't even look at him.

He poured himself a drink, the whiskey golden in the light. "You'll have a room. A keycard. Your meals are scheduled. Your phone access is gone."

He paused, then added, "You'll have a new name. Elena Rivera is dead."

Elena blinked.

He was right.

She had died.

Somewhere between the scream and the blood and the running.

He took another drink, then looked back at her.

"You'll learn quickly, or you won't last."

And just like that, he turned and left through a side door, the soft click of it closing the only sound for several seconds.

Elena stood alone.

With the tied man groaning.

With the smell of whiskey and smoke.

With the weight of the decision settling like cement in her lungs.

The days that followed were a blur of locked doors and silent faces.

She was given new clothes-nothing fancy, just simple jeans and shirts, neutral tones, nothing that would draw attention.

Her name was now Ana Morales.

She was expected to memorize the hallways, the codes, the guard routines. A woman named Rosa was assigned to her. Stern, wordless, sharp-eyed. She spoke in commands, never questions.

"Eat."

"Sit."

"Follow."

Elena did.

There was no school. No books. No messages from the outside. Her old life vanished like smoke, and in its place was this strange, cold existence-waiting for orders, obeying them, and avoiding the locked doors that sometimes echoed with screams.

Her dreams changed.

No longer just of blood and death-but of him. Damian. His voice. His scars. The way his eyes looked when he spoke of consequences like they were facts of nature.

She told herself it was fear. That her heart racing when he walked into a room was just the trauma. That the heat crawling over her skin when he glanced at her was just adrenaline.

But fear didn't feel like this.

Fear didn't make her wonder what his lips tasted like when no one else was watching.

And she hated herself for it.

Because this man-this devil with ink on his chest and blood on his hands-wasn't someone she should ever want.

Yet somehow, in this cage, he was the only thing that felt real.

And as the days grew darker, she started to understand something she hadn't before.

Survival didn't just mean hiding.

Sometimes, it meant becoming something else entirely.

And in Damian's world, she would have to decide:

Was she prey?

Or was she willing to become a predator?